


Potentially Evil (Potentially Good, too)

by sneksonaplane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, eventual poly relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:25:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneksonaplane/pseuds/sneksonaplane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, Stiles. Therapy.” He says the word very slowly this time, as if Stiles hadn’t heard the first time or doesn’t understand what it means. Of course he understands what it means, he just can’t put it together- the idea of Peter in some shrink’s office, discussing his past and phobias or learning healthy coping mechanisms or handling his emotions like a normal person. </p>
<p>Peter keeps talking before he can even comprehend the concept. <i>Peter Hale. In therapy.</i> “It came to my attention while I was in Eichen house that I’ve experienced significant trauma in my life, and that I may not have always handled that trauma properly. I’m seeing a therapist and attending group sessions so I can learn to cope with my past and not repeat the same mistakes I made when I was blinded by pain and loss...and yes, I have friends. Many of the women I knew as a teenager still live in the area with their families, did you know that? I’m actually supposed to meet two of them for coffee soon.” </p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>the one where Peter gets out of Eichen house and decides to turn his life around by being less evil and wearing ugly sweater vests</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Stiles sees Peter again, he thinks he's hallucinating. He's headed towards the Starbucks a block away from the police station, and Beacon Hills' downtown area is fairly deserted for a Saturday afternoon so he notices Peter walking in his direction immediately. 

_What. The fuck._ He stops in his tracks for a moment, stands in the middle of the sidewalk gaping at the werewolf approaching him and doesn't even bother to count his fingers because he has to be dreaming or imagining this. It can't be real, Peter is in Eichen house. _Was in Eichen house_ , a helpful part of his brain reminds, Peter was in Eichen house but there had been no sign of him when he'd visited with Scott, Kira, and Lydia the week before. He could have escaped. 

He's been standing there too long, Peter is only a few yards away now and still walking towards him with an unreadable expression on his face and Stiles isn't going to let him get the upper hand, they're going to meet on his terms. Sort of. Rushing forwards, he closes the distance between the two of them, invades Peter's personal space just to hiss, "I have a pepper spray canister filled with wolfsbane in my pocket. Try anything and I'll spray it in your eyes." Then he steps back, because even he's a little uncomfortable with how close he's standing to the wolf, their chests almost touching. 

Peter holds his hands up in what's probably supposed to be a nonthreatening gesture, but. Well. Nothing Peter Hale does can be considered nonthreatening. 

"I'm not here to hurt you or anyone else, trust me. The spray cannister of wolfsbane is clever, though. I always knew you were smart." Peter actually smiles then, and Stiles just narrows his eyes in a glare. 

"Why are you here, then? Why aren't you locked up in Eichen house or, I don't know, dead maybe?" He sticks his hand in his pocket, where he can easily grab at the wolfsbane he’d threatened Peter with. Just in case. 

His weirdly pleasant smile not even wavering, Peter responds, “You wound me, truly. I was released from Eichen house over a month ago, and I’m not dead because I haven’t made the mistake of trying to murder any hunters or true alphas since I got out. I’m past that stage in my life.”

Stiles barks an indignant laugh. “What stage? The stage where you’re an evil, power hungry, serial killing zombiewolf?” Part of him is still just waiting for Peter to attack him, or kidnap him again, so he refuses to let his guard down or take his hand off the canister full of wolfsbane, even when a group of elderly women passes them on the sidewalk. Peter, on the other hand, looks completely relaxed and, if he were anyone else, Stiles would say friendly. 

“Yes,” he answers solemnly, and god, Stiles wants to punch that smile off his face. Mostly because he hates and distrusts Peter after everything the werewolf’s done, and maybe in part just because he’s been having a lot of violent urges lately. 

“...one could even say I’m reformed. I don’t expect you to believe me, you have no reason to like or even trust me, but I swear that it’s the truth. I’ve changed.” Apparently Peter has been making some sort of earnest speech this whole time, while Stiles has been too caught up imagining hurting him to pay attention. Whatever, he’s picked up on enough of it to get the general idea of what Peter’s saying and to know he doesn’t believe a word of it.

He’s pretty sure his expression conveys just what he thinks of Peter being “reformed” when he says, “Of course I don’t believe you. I definitely don’t trust you.” He won’t even bring up the topic of whether or not he _likes_ Peter Hale. “I mean, if you’re such a good guy now, why haven’t you left Beacon Hills, the town full of people who hate you and people you tried to _kill_? What could you possibly be doing here that isn’t evil and horrible? What, do you have a day job now?” 

Peter’s expression finally sours. It’s a relief to see him looking more like Stiles remembers him, annoyed and snarky as he sighs overdramatically. “Of course I don’t have a _job_ , but I do have a life here and perfectly legitimate reasons to remain in Beacon Hills. This is where my family, my former pack, has always lived. I belong here. I’ve also reconnected with some of my old friends from high school, those who still live in Beacon Hills, at least. I’ve been spending much of my time either with them or attending therapy.”

Stiles finally looks at one of his hands, counting the fingers on it. He just needs to confirm that he’s awake, this is real. It doesn’t sound real. “You- therapy...friends?” He sputters, earning him an eyeroll from Peter.

“Yes, Stiles. Therapy.” He says the word very slowly this time, as if Stiles hadn’t heard the first time or doesn’t understand what it means. Of course he understands what it means, he just can’t put it together- the idea of Peter in some shrink’s office, discussing his past and phobias or learning healthy coping mechanisms or handling his emotions like a normal person. 

Peter keeps talking before he can even comprehend the concept. _Peter Hale. In therapy._ “It came to my attention while I was in Eichen house that I’ve experienced significant trauma in my life, and that I may not have always handled that trauma properly. I’m seeing a therapist and attending group sessions so I can learn to cope with my past and not repeat the same mistakes I made when I was blinded by pain and loss...and yes, I have friends. Many of the women I knew as a teenager still live in the area with their families, did you know that? I’m actually supposed to meet two of them for coffee soon.” He gestures to the Starbucks they’re loitering outside of, the one Stiles had been headed to when Peter had come along and ruined his plans, his entire day, probably. 

Not entirely sure what to say at this point, Stiles insists, “I don’t believe you. You’re not going to therapy to magically become a good person, you’re not hanging out with some middle aged housewives- unless they’re murderers too.”

Peter snorts and shakes his head. “Rebecca and Linda aren’t murderers, trust me. You can meet them, join us for coffee if it would make you feel better.”

_No way._ No way is he socializing with Peter and his mysterious lady friends at Starbucks. It’s just not happening. 

 

_How is this happening?_ Stiles is standing in line in Starbucks, Peter Hale standing next to him. The older man keeps trying to make small talk, which Stiles is quick to shut down with sarcastic responses, thinly veiled insults and dirty looks in Peter’s direction. He’s not here to make nice; he’s here to figure out what the hell is going on, what Peter is doing and if he’s a threat to Stiles’ pack. That doesn’t stop him from accepting Peter’s offer to pay for his coffee and the banana muffin he decides to order, though. If he’s going to insist on playing the nice guy, Stiles might as well take advantage of it, right?

Five minutes later they’re sitting at a table right by the door and Stiles is trying to look anywhere but at Peter. 

“I’d ask if you’re enjoying your food, but you haven’t so much as touched it yet.” Peter says, sounding amused, and then before Stiles can come up with a retort he adds, “Ladies, hello.” His gaze is fixed behind where Stiles is sitting, and when he turns around he discovers why- two women have approached their table, and they greet Peter with a disturbing amount of enthusiasm, one of them pulling the man out of his seat to hug him and plant a kiss on his cheek. Soon their attention turns to Stiles, though.

“And who is this?” Asks the blonde one, who looks every bit a stereotypical suburban housewife in her floral blouse and pearl earrings, a friendly smile on her face that just screams ‘soccer mom.’ 

Peter is really playing it up now, looking just as cheerful and benign as his two friends when he says, “This is Stiles Stilinski, he’s...an old family friend. We bumped into each other one our way here.”

“Oh, the sheriff’s boy!” The darker haired woman chirps excitedly, offering him a hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Stiles. I’m Becky Thomas, head of the Public Servants Appreciation Committee. Maybe you’ve heard of me through your daddy or one of his deputies?”

Stiles responds on autopilot, silently marvelling at the bizarre situation he’s gotten himself into- he’s with an evil werewolf who claims he’s no longer evil, and he’s making pleasant small talk with the evil werewolf’s friends, who appear to be sweet, friendly soccer mom types. He shakes Becky’s hand, smiles and nods at her. “Yeah, I remember that time you organized a bake sale to raise money for the fire department. It’s nice to meet you too. You bake really good brownies, by the way.”

The other woman, who’s now sitting down beside Peter and sipping at the drink he’d already bought for her, laughs and states, “Her brownies are a crowd favorite. We’re holding a bake sale at the middle school today and I’m sure the brownies will be the first to go.” She reaches over the table to shake Stiles’ hand too, adding, “I’m Linda. It’s nice to meet you, dear.”

Stiles is already tired of maintaining his polite smile for these women, as nice as they seem. He mumbles, “Nice to meet you,” and finally takes a bite of his muffin just so he can take a break from making small talk with Becky and Linda, and _Peter_ who looks relaxed and at home among these women, laughing at whatever cringeworthy, unfunny mom jokes they’re telling and discussing a bake sale. Really. 

After a few minutes of zoning out their conversation and sitting there awkwardly, Stiles pipes up, “So how did you two meet Peter?” Maybe they’ll tell a different story than the one he heard from Peter, and Stiles will have proof that the wolf isn’t as trustworthy or reformed as he’s pretending to be. 

“Oh, we’ve both known Peter for quite some time. We were very close in high school.” Becky says, and is that a suggestive expression on her face? Linda giggles, and Peter just rolls his eyes and laughs good-naturedly, oh god. Stiles doesn’t need to think about a teenage Peter getting nasty with these ladies. He doesn’t deserve this. 

Thankfully both women move on, Linda cutting in to say, “We hadn’t seen him in years until recently, though. Just a few weeks ago we were reunited when Peter joined our book club at the public library.”

“He’s been a wonderful addition to the club.” Becky gushes, causing Peter to wave away the compliment with a smile.

“I’m just a distraction to everyone else in book club, actually.” He admits, tone hushed like he’s confiding in Stiles when he looks at him from across the table. “I have very outdated taste in books, and I’ve had to do a lot of reading to catch up to the point these ladies are at.” 

Peter gestures to the women sitting beside him, who laugh and protest that Peter has done a great job keeping up with the rest of the club, even reviewing books they’ve already read that he missed out on. Stiles briefly zones out on their conversation again, at least until Linda asks him, “Stiles, have you read _The Notebook_?”

“Um. Those kind of books aren’t really my thing, but I’ve seen the movie. My friend Lydia loves it.”

“You should give the book a chance!” Becky suggests enthusiastically. “I know some men think it’s embarrassing or silly to read romance novels, but you would adore _The Notebook_. Peter does. He’s read it three times now.” She nudges Peter, who actually looks a little embarrassed himself now.

He still flashes a brief smile though, before shrugging and confessing, “It’s true. I only cried the first two times, though.” 

Stiles can’t help it; he laughs. “ _Only_ the first two times.” He taunts, causing both women to laugh too and Peter to roll his eyes. 

“You’d cry too if you read it. It’s an intensely emotional book.” Peter insists, and while Stiles still can’t believe Peter’s nice guy ruse is anything but a ruse yet, while he’s still freaked out by the image Peter Hale makes sitting between two suburban housewives and defending his response to _The Notebook_ , he ends up laughing again anyways. 

“Sure, Peter. Sure I would.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Hale, actual elderly man with a dildo in his sock drawer. That's pretty much all this chapter is about and I guess there's some Stiles talking about his feelings and stuff.

“Are you stalking me?” Peter asks all too calmly the next time he sees Stiles. 

“What? No.” Stiles plasters on his best disbelieving expression, hoping he looks insulted by the very idea that he could be stalking Peter, that he could be stalking anyone. 

He might be stalking Peter. Meeting the werewolf’s friends at Starbucks a week ago had only succeeded in further arousing his suspicions that Peter was up to something evil. It just wasn’t normal, okay? Stiles had sat there semi-awkwardly while Becky, Linda and Peter chattered inanely about books and the elementary school bake sale (the elementary school bake sale which, apparently, Peter was also helping out with later that afternoon.) Not only the two women but Peter himself had made countless attempts at including Stiles in their conversation, always asking him questions and directing explanations and jokes at him, and he’d gone along with it the best he could, laughed and smiled along, but inside his mind was racing in search of some meaning behind Peter’s nice guy act. Because there had to be a sinister plan behind it, and it had to be an act. Peter Hale was not a nice guy. Stiles was going to prove it. 

Which brought him to his current situation. Stiles has been following Peter all day, starting when he tracked down the man’s apartment complex and sat parked outside for hours until he caught sight of Peter emerging from the building, wearing a navy blue sweater vest of all things, the downright offensive garment layered over a white collared shirt. A sweater vest. Part of Stiles is still laughing inwardly at the incongruity of it- Peter Hale and a sweater vest. Two things he never thought he’d associate with each other. 

Peter hasn’t done anything incriminating or even interesting so far, though. He’d made a brief stop at the library before going to the grocery store, Stiles had followed him inside the building, spent some time creeping through the aisles a safe distance behind Peter, lost sight of the man in the frozen foods aisle, and then had been accosted by Peter who had somehow managed to sneak up behind him. He’s still carrying the shopping basket and the reusable bags he’s been toting around the store, and looks terribly amused instead of angry or exasperated as he stares Stiles down. 

Stiles, for his part, had deftly picked up a frozen pizza from the nearest shelf the moment he’d heard Peter’s voice, and now he holds it up in front of himself like he’s displaying a prime piece of evidence. “I’m just doing some grocery shopping, same as you.” He makes a show of peering into the older man’s basket even though he already knows exactly what’s in it, had seen Peter carefully picking out each item. “Why are you buying so many prunes and bran muffins, by the way? Gonna use them to lure in and poison some innocent old people?”

“I like prunes and bran muffins. Is that a crime?” Peter’s smile is probably supposed to be innocent and disarming, but Stiles isn’t that easily swayed.

“No, but murdering people is a crime.” He snaps, probably a bit too loudly if the disturbed glances a few shoppers give them is any indication. 

Seeming to take note of the worried looks Stiles’ outburst receives himself, Peter looks around them briefly before returning his gaze to Stiles, eyebrows raised and mouth twitching as if he’s fighting laughter. “I’ve paid for my crimes.” He points out, ignoring the derisive snort that earns him. “I’ve learned from them too, and don’t plan on murdering anyone else in the near future. No matter how much they deserve it. Look, if it eases your mind, you can continue following me for the rest of the day. I’ll even let you snoop around the inside of my apartment.” He suggests, which, what? That’s probably the weirdest invite into someone’s home that Stiles has ever received. 

Yet it only takes a moment for Stiles to accept the offer with a terse nod, shoving the frozen pizza in his hands into Peter’s basket. “Fine. But trust me, I am going to snoop around your place. Thoroughly. And you’re buying this for me.” Peter just shrugs and starts heading towards the front of the store to check out.

 

He’s not sure what he expected Peter’s apartment to look like. More cavelike, maybe? Something fit for the big bad wolf, or a Bond movie villain. At the very least he’d wondered if Peter lived in the same dismal conditions as Derek, with a big, barely furnished and gloomy looking apartment. 

Instead the werewolf’s home is _cozy_. Stiles had almost done a double take when they’d walked inside and he’d found himself in a tiny kitchen that could only be described as quaint, with its potted plants lining the windowsill, red floral curtains on said window that matched the tea kettle on the stove, and an ornate wooden table that looked like an antique squeezed into one corner of the room. Peter had just brushed past him, placed his reusable shopping bags down on the table and started putting away his groceries. It was only when Stiles had remained standing there in the doorway for a good five minutes that the older man peered in his direction and ever so graciously said, “You don’t have to just stand there. Make yourself comfortable. Search through all my personal belongings, I don’t care. I’ve got nothing to hide.” 

Stiles had glared at Peter, then done exactly as he’d suggested. 

 

He’s now in Peter’s bedroom, rifling through his sock drawer after looking through his living room, his bathroom, and under his bed. So far he’s found nothing incriminating, and he probably should have expected this, Peter wouldn’t just let Stiles look through his things if there was a dead body or something hidden in his apartment, but still. There has to be something. This is all too normal, normal to the point of freakishness. Stiles pushes aside a pile of socks, grabs blindly at what’s underneath it, pauses when his hand touches something rubbery instead of soft cotton, and- Oh. 

_Oh._

That is most definitely a dildo. He stands there with his fingers wrapped around the scarily thick, but decidedly realistic head of the toy, frozen in place for a minute by his discovery. Then he releases a belated, horrified yelp and drops the thing back into Peter’s sock drawer, slamming the drawer shut and jerking his head up in the direction of the door as if he expects Peter himself to be standing right there, watching him. He’s not there, of course, but Stiles doesn’t open the drawer again. He’s done playing detective for the time being; he’s not risking another disturbing, mildly arousing- disturbingly mildly arousing?- discovery. 

 

When he wanders out of Peter’s bedroom, face still burning with the memory of what he'd found in there, Stiles notices the smell of pizza coming from the nearby kitchen and returns to the room as if drawn by the scent of food. Peter is now sitting primly at the kitchen table, taking sips from a mug of tea and flipping through the pages of a book. He looks up when Stiles enters, greeting him with an all too casually asked question-

“Find any proof of my continued murderous ways?”

Peter actually looks mildly surprised when he huffs out a, “Yes.” But then Stiles points a finger accusingly at the wolf and adds, “That pizza was _mine_ and you’re cooking it.”

With that infuriating smirk on his face, Peter rolls his eyes and reassures, “I’m cooking it for you, Stiles. Relax.” 

He’s getting sick of being dumbfounded by Peter Hale, of never knowing how to respond to the guy’s overall weirdness. But he can’t stop it, just stares blankly at Peter for a moment while he hovers as if lost in the doorway of the kitchen. 

“Sit down.” Peter gestures to the chair across from his own. “You look like you haven’t been eating enough recently.”

“And you sound like my grandma, complaining that I’m not eating enough and shoving food at me every time I see you.” He retorts, but he still sits down. 

Lightly, Peter replies, “I’m allowed to be concerned for your well-being.” For a minute Stiles just gapes disbelievingly at him, because what? Since when is Peter of all people “concerned for his well-being”? Since never, that’s when.

“No...you’re kind of not.” He says slowly, tone flat but still dripping with condescension. “Why would you just start caring about me at all when we’re not _friends_ , we barely know each other, and you were pretty much my pack’s sworn enemy not too long ago? It just- it doesn’t work like that, man.”

Across from him, Peter heaves a sigh and stares exasperatedly upwards at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe it, as if _Stiles_ is the ridiculous one here. He stands and walks towards the fridge, opening it even as he says, “It could work like that. You can’t tell me how to feel.” Taking a bottle of water out of the fridge, he places it on the table in front of Stiles, wordlessly offering it to him. “Besides, I’m not your sworn enemy anymore, right? I’m sure you and your pack have found someone new to wreak havoc on your lives by now.”

Stiles thinks of the dread doctors, the chimeras, of Theo, and laughs bitterly. “You can never have enough archenemies. But yeah. I think we have worse problems than you now.”

“Problems worse than me?” He swears Peter sounds offended by the prospect of something being even worse than himself. “Do tell me about these problems of yours.” 

Peter is one of the last people Stiles would have expected to pour his heart out to about the pack’s latest issues. But why not, he figures? The two of them always made a good team in the past; maybe Peter will help him figure things out or gain a new perspective this time, either because he’s as good as he claims to be or because helping Stiles will somehow further his own agenda. At the very least, Peter is someone to vent to. So he does it with minimal hesitation, starting with, “Have you ever heard of the dread doctors? Your buddy Dr. Valack knows all about them.”

 

“So now these innocent kids are being turned into monsters, the dread doctors are probably undefeatable and planning who knows what, and no one believes me about Theo being a threat to the pack.” Stiles finishes, leaning back in his chair and looking out the kitchen window to avoid Peter’s careful scrutiny. He’s been scarily attentive and solemn looking during Stiles’ retelling of the last few weeks, only interrupting his explanation to offer Stiles more water, ask if he’s done with his pizza, and ask Stiles to clarify a few times. 

One of those times had been when Stiles told an edited version of the incidents involving Donovan, being intentionally vague about the night he’d killed the older boy and the days following it. Peter’s questions at that point had made him paranoid, understandably, half convinced that the werewolf somehow _knew_ he’d murdered Donovan, especially when he’d insisted Stiles repeatedly retell the events from the night at the hospital, where Theo killed one of the chimeras and Stiles had covered for him (a part he had told Peter about, god knows why.) 

Peter surprises him for what seems like the dozenth time that week when instead of focusing further on the murder Theo had committed, possibly cross-examining Stiles about why he’d kept it a secret from everyone else, all he says is “I believe you about Theo. Though I’m sure my support means nothing to you since I’m pure evil, only doing anything for my own benefit and probably plotting to murder someone myself as we speak.” 

Stiles is so focused on glaring in response to Peter’s teasing grin, on complaining that he’s, “not helping your own case here, asshole,” that he doesn’t think much of the first part of Peter’s response. 

It’s not until twenty minutes later, when he’s left the wolf’s apartment and is driving himself home, that he replays the scene in his head, hears the words “I believe you” all over again and feels a sense of relief, and of validation that he immediately hates himself for. Peter’s right- his support, the fact that he just _believes_ Stiles about Theo when no one else does, it shouldn’t mean anything to him. There’s no telling if Peter was being genuine, and even if he was, the support of a murderous werewolf isn’t worth much. It still makes him feel better. Someone believes him. _Peter_ believes him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hella short chapter with the most mild of angst and emotional hurt/comfort.

Stiles isn't sure what he's doing outside of Peter's apartment at 3 in the morning. Their first encounter had been an accident, and the second time he'd had a reason to seek Peter out, as ridiculous or unsubstantial as that reason might seem to anyone else. This time? He can't even come up with a flimsy excuse to give Peter when he opens the door to his apartment in response to Stiles’ incessant knocking, can't even come up with an excuse to give himself. 

It’s just. He’s been having nightmares again. Ever since he killed Donovan, he’s been reliving the event in his sleep, the worst part being that his primary emotion in the dreams is always pleasure, that he _liked_ killing someone and likes doing it over and over again in dreams. And in some ways it really is like being possessed by the Nogitsune all over again, because he wakes up and the nightmare doesn’t go away, Donovan is still dead, Theo of all people knows Stiles is a murderer, he’s barely spoken to Scott in weeks and Malia has seemed distracted with her own problems, hasn’t even spent the night at his house in over a week.

None of that excuses him showing up at Peter’s home like this, but all he could think about was getting somewhere safe, someplace not tainted by the presence and memories of Theo or the dread doctors. About ridiculous sweater vests and the smell of some overpriced herbal tea and the words “I believe you.”

 

“Stiles?” 

At first he thinks he hears concern underlying the annoyance in Peter’s voice, but no. He’s pretty sure that’s just pure annoyance, the older man impatiently repeating his name when he doesn’t get an immediate response. 

“Huh?” He physically shakes himself out of his thoughts, staring blankly at the man in front of him.

“What. Do. You. Want?” 

Peter enunciates each word carefully, intentionally and offensively slow. To be fair, Stiles _had_ missed the question the first time he’d asked it. And now he doesn’t know how to answer it. What does he want?

“Um. Can I come in?” Not exactly an answer, but it will have to do. 

Peter heaves a sigh and steps aside, allowing Stiles to step past him and into his kitchen. The stiff wooden chair he’d sat in last time he was here looks strangely comfortable, maybe because he’s so tired he feels unsteady on his feet. Whatever the reason, Stiles is drawn to his former spot at the kitchen table and sits down, then promptly lays his head facedown on the table, using it as a makeshift, painfully uncomfortable pillow. 

Peter bustles about the kitchen, cleaning up or watering his plants or something, who knows. Stiles doesn’t bother tracking his movements or paying any attention to what he’s doing, just sits there until he hears Peter pull out the chair across from him, and then state, “You look horrible.”

He manages to grumble out a sarcastic, “Thanks.”

Neither of them talks for awhile after that. Stiles remains slumped over in his seat, head on the table, and tries not to think about the dream he’d woken up from less than an hour ago. Instead, he wonders once again what he’s doing here. Sometimes he dissociates and does the weirdest things on autopilot, unable to make himself act logically when he feels so lost in his own head that nothing around him, nothing he does seems real. Maybe that’s what’s going on right now.

 

He’s about to get up and leave, wondering how he’ll drive home safely if he’s dissociated and how he even got here in the first place. And then Peter starts talking. “You know, I used to think nothing could scare me. Loss, pain, hunters like the Argents, death- none of it frightened me. Why should it?” He scoffs, traces of the old Peter, arrogant and brash, showing themselves. 

“Then I was locked in a cell with Dr. Valack. The things I saw when I looked into his third eye, the things he made me see, taught me what fear feels like. I couldn’t make myself forget what he showed me. No matter how hard I tried, it was all I thought about. There was a point where I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing what he’d shown me all over again, certainly couldn’t sleep with those images stuck in my head.”

Slowly, Stiles lifts his head to look at Peter, skeptical that he’s being serious at first and wondering where this is going, but quickly growing captivated as Peter keeps talking and talking. He describes his experience in Eichen house, some of the horrible things Dr. Valack showed him with his third eye and the toll they apparently took on Peter’s mental health. As unpleasant as his narrative is, the low, steady tone of the man’s voice has a calming effect on Stiles, almost lulling him to sleep right there before Peter suddenly goes quiet. 

“You’re exhausted.” He observes, and Stiles can’t even give a snarky reply, so he only shoots Peter a dirty look and grumbles incoherently under his breath before closing his eyes. He just needs to rest. Just for a minute. 

But then Stiles is moving, being yanked rudely into a standing position, and his eyes snap open so he can glare at Peter beside him. 

“What are you doing?” He demands.

Rolling his eyes, Peter guides Stiles out of the kitchen with an arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Stiles should be more bothered by the invasion of personal space, but he really is tired, enough that he apparently doesn’t care about boundaries and leans into Peter, letting the man half lead, half drag him through his apartment. “I’m putting you to bed before you fall asleep at my table.” He explains as they walk, and Stiles should be protesting because he’s not having a sleepover with Peter Hale. But then the man’s bed is right in front of him, and it looks so soft and inviting that he just falls down onto it, landing face-first and nuzzling into the plush blankets and pillows nearest to his face, his eyes closing again. 

It’s only when Peter starts manhandling him, taking off his sweatshirt and letting it drop beside him on the bed, that Stiles opens his eyes and jerks himself out of his half-asleep state. 

He flinches away from the hands on his sides and struggles to get his red hoodie back on, at least until Peter huffs out a partially amused, partially offended, “Relax, I’m just trying to get you comfortable. Even when I was evil I wouldn’t have taken advantage of a semi-conscious teenager. Now go to sleep.” Peter doesn't attempt to take off any more of his clothes, so Stiles decides to believe him and relaxes somewhat.

He should say something. Or better yet, he should leave before he falls asleep in Peter’s apartment and wakes up dead. Well, technically he can’t wake up dead, he won’t wake up at all if he dies, but- _fuck it_. Stiles rolls over so he’s on his side, face pressed against a soft pillow that smells like fabric softener and aftershave. He’s asleep before Peter finishes covering him with a blanket and walking out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning on actually writing this thing. Oops. It's also not gonna be as much of a crack fic as I originally expected it to be. Shit's gonna get serious.


End file.
